Ms. Delulu

An average dreamer weaving delusions to keep the world at bay. For now, my stories breathe for GiyuShino—someday, they’ll drift toward LawBin

[delulu-pen]

I can imagine Shinobu doing this😭

Audio from Daily life of highschool boys

[delulu-pen]

Extra: The Summer That Never Warmed

The wisteria scent clung faintly in the air, fragile and fleeting, swallowed quickly by the copper tang of blood. Each breath scraped through Shinobu’s lungs like glass, thin and fraying at the edges. The world had narrowed to the crushing cold of Dōma’s arms — an unyielding cage that pressed her bones until they creaked. His voice slid into her ear, light and playful, as if mocking her very humanity.

He called her efforts pointless, her life a wasted struggle, his tone almost gentle. He told her she would remain with him forever, peaceful and whole — a mockery of the peace her sister had once dreamed for her. His eyes, bright and hollow, searched her face as though he expected fear. She gave him none.

He asked for her last words, his tone almost playful. She gave them without hesitation, each one laced with venom sharp enough to wound his pride, even if it could not pierce his skin.She watched his smile twitch, just slightly, and counted that as a small victory.

Then she saw her — Kanao. Eyes wide, fierce, carrying the weight of everything Shinobu could no longer hold. Her fingers moved with quiet precision, tracing the silent language they had shared for years. In the air between them, she passed the truth of Dōma: the poison, his techniques, the small cracks in the armor of his immortality.

But Dōma noticed. His amusement deepened, his arms tightening until her spine screamed. Bone cracked — sharp, wet — and her legs no longer answered her. The pain was blinding, but she refused to cry out.

In the edges of her vision, the world began to dissolve. And then the memories came.

She saw Kanae, standing in sunlight, her hair catching the wind like silk. She saw the garden in spring, wisteria hanging heavy in the air. She saw every fleeting smile she had forced herself to wear, every quiet night spent alone with the weight of her resolve.

And then, unbidden, one face rose above all the rest.

Giyu.

The image was almost painfully clear — the stillness of his eyes, the rare moments when the lines of his mouth softened, the quiet strength that had always stood just beside her. She had spent years prodding at his walls, uncertain if she had ever managed to slip through even a crack. Did he even think of her beyond their shared battles? Would he weep for her, or would her death simply fold into the long list of names he carried in silence?

She could not know. But in this final moment, she let herself imagine it — his composure breaking, just for a heartbeat, somewhere far from the eyes of others. Not for the Insect Hashira. Not for a comrade. But for her.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, tinged with both apology and longing.

"Giyu..." she whispered.

The darkness pressed closer, not cruel but inevitable, like the closing of a door. She surrendered to it, carrying with her the image of his face — steady, quiet, and perhaps, just perhaps, mourning.

Chapter 3: here

[delulu-pen]

Chapter 3: The Winter That Bloomed

Giyu was often seen before the small, well-kept grave marked with the name Kocho Shinobu. In the beginning, his visits were a torrent of unrestrained grief—ragged sobs muffled against the earth, his single remaining hand pressed tightly to the stone as though to anchor her spirit. But this day was different. No sobs came. Only tears, silent and steady, traced the path down his cheeks.

He wished to honor her sacrifice, to live as proof that it had not been in vain—yet, the weight of living felt heavier than any sword he had ever carried. The absence gnawed at him in silence. The thought that he was meant to die in her place whispered to him at night — but he would never give voice to it. To speak such a thing would be to dishonor her, and all the others who had laid down their lives so that he might stand here, breathing in a world free of demons.

When Kanao awoke from her own injuries, the weight of her sister’s death pressed down with merciless force. Her eyes, though steady, carried the same emptiness he saw in his own reflection. She mourned quietly at first, but grief — no matter how softly carried — is still a heavy burden.

It was Giyu who came to her, unsure of how to comfort yet unwilling to let her grieve alone. They shared the same loss, the same person etched into their hearts. There were no grand words exchanged, only the quiet acknowledgment that they both understood the same pain.

When Kanao regained her strength enough to walk, he accompanied her to the grave. The summer breeze stirred faintly, carrying the scent of wisteria from the nearby trees. Kanao knelt before the stone marker, fingers tracing the carved name. Her voice, soft but steady, broke the stillness.

“Shinobu-neesan... I did it,” she told the wind. “I avenged you both. You need not worry — I will care for the Butterfly Mansion, for the triplets, along with Aoi. I promise to live my life… and to move forward.”

Giyu stood behind her, the wind tugging at his haori. Her words struck him deeply—not because of what she said, but because of the conviction with which she said it. While she looked forward, he had allowed himself to be rooted in the past, clinging to loss as though letting go would betray her memory.

It was then he understood his selfishness. His sorrow had been turned inward, his gaze fixed on what he had lost, not on what remained. He resolved then to live—not only for himself, but for Shinobu, and for every comrade whose blood bought the peace they now held.

Kanao rose and turned to him, holding out the butterfly ornament Shinobu had once worn. “She would have wanted you to have this,” she said simply.

The weight of it in his palm was heavier than it should have been. They wept together then—not the raw, unhealed weeping of fresh loss, but the deep, soul-emptying tears that come when the heart finally releases its hold.

In the years that followed, Giyu’s life changed in quiet, almost imperceptible ways. He learned to laugh softly in the company of Tengen’s family, even holding their firstborn in his remaining arm with surprising tenderness. He answered Tanjiro’s cheerful letters without delay, allowed himself to speak more openly with his master, and stood as a silent witness when Kanao married Tanjiro. The joy in their union warmed him, yet it also reminded him of a truth he could never escape.

He could no longer remember how long it had been since Shinobu was beside him — only that the days had stretched into something endless. In her absence, he had been forced to become someone she might barely recognize, reshaped by grief and solitude. Even moments of peace carried shadows. Sometimes he would catch fleeting visions of what might have been: Shinobu tending a sunlit garden, her laughter floating through the warm air, perhaps a child nestled between them.

They were fragile, impossible dreams, and waking from them felt like tearing open a wound that had never healed.

The nights seemed longer now, skies empty of stars, the darkness settling over him like a home he had never chosen. Each goodbye in his life left a deeper echo than the one before. Still, he carried her memory as both burden and anchor, walking forward without her, yet never without the quiet ache that tethered him to what they had lost.

Years later, when Giyu felt the slow approach of the end, he returned to her grave. The sky that day was the same blue as the one he remembered from their last meeting. Sitting with his back against the stone, he held her butterfly ornament to his chest.

“Did I live well enough to your satisfaction?” he asked softly. His lips curved into a faint, almost self-conscious smile, followed by a quiet chuckle.

A breeze swept across the clearing, scattering wisteria petals like soft snow. And then, as his vision dimmed, he saw her — crouched before him in that familiar way, arms draped loosely over her knees. She was smiling, the kind of genuine smile he had always recognized beneath her teasing words.

“Yes. Beyond my expectations… I’m proud of you,” she said, her voice as warm as spring sunlight. She reached out her hand. Without hesitation, he took it.

At the age of twenty-five, Giyu Tomioka succumbed to the toll of the Demon Slayer Mark that had once pushed his body beyond its mortal limits. When Tanjiro arrived later that day, he found him lying peacefully beside her grave, the butterfly ornament resting over his heart, a small smile frozen upon his face.

At last, he had gone where she waited.

Chapter 2: here

Extra Chapter: here

[delulu-pen]

Chapter 2: The Autumn That Forgot to End

The air was warm, still — unnervingly still — and free of the sounds he had grown accustomed to: no cries of the wounded, no hurried footfalls, no clash of steel.

He stared at the ceiling, its familiar latticework blurred at the edges of his vision. His limbs felt heavy, as though some invisible weight pinned him to the futon. Only when he shifted did he feel the pull — the sharp, ghostlike ache along the right side where an arm should have been. The absence was immediate, wrong, and it set his breath faltering.

The memories began to seep back, slow and relentless.

The battle.

The crow’s voice, sharp and without pause: Kocho Shinobu is dead.

Her smile — not the courteous one she offered to all, but the rare, unguarded curve of her lips that slipped through when she thought no one was watching. The one that had felt like sunlight breaking through the fog.

A shadow fell across him.

“You’re awake,” came a low, steady voice.

He turned his head, and there was Urokodaki Sakonji, kneeling beside the futon. Time had deepened the lines on his face, but his presence was as immovable as the mountains he called home. The faint smell of cedar clung to his robes.

Giyu tried to push himself up, his left hand bracing against the bedding, but a firm, calloused hand pressed him back.

“Lie down,” Urokodaki said, his voice even. “Your wounds are far from healed.”

“I…” The word was thin, breaking in his throat. He did not know what he meant to say — her name, perhaps, or to ask if it was true — but even that small effort failed him.

“You have been asleep for nearly three weeks,” his master continued, the words deliberate, as if weighing each one. “The battle is over.”

Over.

The syllables fell like a stone into still water, ripples spreading until they filled him entirely. The ache in his body was nothing compared to the hollow yawning inside his chest.

He turned his face toward the wall, breath uneven. At first it was silent, the only sign a faint tremor in his shoulders. Then the sound broke through — ragged, drawn from the very marrow of him. His body shook with it, each breath sharp and unsteady.

The wisteria’s scent filled his lungs, sweet and unyielding, and he hated it for how it reminded him of her: passing him in the corridors of the Butterfly Mansion, the faint trace of that same fragrance clinging to her haori.

Urokodaki did not speak. His hand remained on Giyu’s shoulder — not restraining, not consoling in words, but anchoring him to the present, to something that had not yet been taken.

When the tide of grief ebbed just enough for breath to return, Giyu whispered her name. It escaped like a confession, fragile and hoarse, a thing he had kept too long locked away. The room seemed emptier for the sound.

But it was not enough.

He swung his legs over the futon, pain flaring in every muscle. His balance faltered without his right arm to steady him, and he nearly pitched forward. Still, he pushed to his feet.

Urokodaki’s voice came low. “Giyu—”

“I need to see her.” The words scraped out, raw.

He staggered toward the door, his left hand dragging along the wall for support. Without his right arm, each step felt like it would pull him sideways, as if the world itself tilted against him.

Urokodaki rose and came to his side. For a heartbeat, Giyu thought he would be pulled back. Instead, the older man slid an arm under his left side, bearing his weight.

They walked — slowly, haltingly — through the hushed corridors and out into the garden. The air outside was cooler, touched by the scent of grass and earth after rain. Ahead, the graves stood in quiet rows, the wisteria above them swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

When his gaze fell upon her name carved into the stone, the strength left him entirely. He dropped to his knees, his left hand pressing into the soil for balance. His head bowed, and a sound escaped him — not a shout, not even a wail, but a raw, broken cry that carried all the weight of weeks spent in silence.

He stayed there, hunched before the stone, his fingers curling into the earth as if he could reach her through it. His tears darkened the ground. Above, the wisteria shifted once more, scattering a few pale petals over the grave, as though stirred by her passing.

Chapter 1: here

Chapter 3: here

[delulu-pen]

Chapter 1: The Spring We Left Behind

The air was thick with the stench of blood and the acrid tang of wisteria smoke from hastily lit incense. Blades clashed against sinew and bone; the battlefield was a tapestry of motion — each stroke of the sword a thread in the desperate struggle for victory.

Giyu’s breathing was steady, disciplined. His blade rose and fell in precise arcs, cutting down the demon before him with the practiced efficiency of one who had long ceased to count his kills.

Above the tumult, the sudden beat of wings drew his attention. A shadow swooped low, the ink-black form of a Kasugai crow weaving through the chaos. Its voice, sharp and clear, cut through the din like the strike of a hammer.

“Kocho Shinobu is dead.”

The words were delivered without hesitation, without pause — a simple fact, as unadorned as it was merciless. And then the bird was gone, carrying its grim tidings onward.

For the briefest of moments, the world stilled. The clamor of battle receded, the weight of those five syllables pressing upon him like a stone upon the chest. His breath caught in his throat.

Shinobu… gone?

It was absurd to think of her thus — absent, silent, reduced to memory. Yet in that instant, his mind conjured her as vividly as though she stood before him: the faint fragrance of medicinal herbs that clung to her, the measured cadence of her voice, and — above all — that smile.

Not the courteous, well-practiced curve of the lips she wore for the world. Not the sly, mocking one she reserved for her jests at his expense. But the other smile — rare, fleeting, and entirely unguarded — which revealed itself only in unspoken moments.

A smile meant for him alone.

And with it came the bitter truth, as sharp and cold as the steel in his hands: she was dear to him, beyond the bounds of comradeship, beyond the duty they both bore. He had known it, perhaps, somewhere in the recesses of his heart — yet had lacked the courage to name it. He had believed there would be time. Time to speak, time to stand beside her in a world freed of shadows.

But time, it seemed, had forsaken him.

The sudden sting of claws raking across his shoulder dragged him back into the present. Pain lanced through his body, but it was the ache in his chest that nearly unmanned him.

Not here. Not now.

He tightened his grip upon the hilt, the leather binding biting into his palms. His blade rose once more, each stroke driven not by duty alone, but by the fierce resolve that her death should not be rendered meaningless. He would hold his ground until the last demon fell, until the battle was done.

If this was the only offering he could lay at her grave, then so be it.

The hours bled together in a haze of steel, blood, and ragged breath. Every demon that fell beneath his blade brought no relief, only the tightening coil of exhaustion within his limbs. His wounds — deep, unheeded — slowed his movements, yet his grip did not falter.

At last, the tide shifted. The monstrous form before him gave a final, guttural cry before dissolving into ash.

For a moment, he simply stood amidst the ruin, the din of combat fading to a distant hum. Around him, the battlefield lay strewn with the fallen — friend and foe alike. The scent of death clung to the air, mingled with the faint, cloying trace of wisteria from the purifying fires.

He wished to sink to his knees, yet some stubborn thread of resolve kept him upright. His duty, her sacrifice, demanded that he remain standing until all was certain. But the cost for such defiance was already being exacted.

His vision swam. The edges of the world wavered, dimming with each heartbeat. His breathing grew shallow, each inhalation a labor.

At last, his knees buckled. As he fell, the battlefield’s ruin faded. In its place came a softer world — quiet, without smoke or blood.

And there she was.

Shinobu stood before him, her posture casual, one knee drawn up as she crouched so that their eyes were level. Her elbows rested lightly on her knees, her chin in her palm — as if she had been waiting for him all this time. The faintest smile tugged at her lips, not mocking exactly, but carrying that familiar note of mischief she always wore when speaking to him.

“My, my… you look terrible, Tomioka-san,” she said, her tone light as falling petals. “Overdid it again, didn’t you? You really ought to take better care of yourself.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

Her smile softened, losing its edge though not its brightness. She reached out — fingertips light, almost hesitant — and brushed his hair back from his brow. “It’s over now. You can rest.”

He lifted a trembling hand toward hers, desperate to hold onto this moment, to tell her all that had remained unsaid. But before he could touch her, the image dissolved into darkness, leaving only the echo of her voice in his ears.

Chapter 2: here